


The Seventh of the Seventh

by Upstater



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure & Romance, F/M, Powerful Ginny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:36:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28713660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Upstater/pseuds/Upstater
Summary: As the seventh child of the seventh child, Ginny has access to powers not yet explored. She learns what it means to work these powers, and what it means for those around her. Powerful Ginny, Grey Ginny. Hinny later.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	1. Prologue: The Seventh Sister

**Prologue**  
The Seventh Sister  


"III"

As a child, she used to love sneaking out to the broom shed, steal a broom, and then fly all night around the orchard. She would throw apples in the air as high as she could, then race to catch them before they hit the ground.

She used to love climbing the tree by the pond, wiggling her way out onto the branch that hung way over the water, and sit there - imagining herself off on great adventures - before she would jump off into the water and swim around.

She used to love to climb out of her bedroom window onto the roof of Percy's room and scramble back to the notch hidden under the stairs that went up to the higher landings. From there, she was hidden from the rest of the house, she could watch the sunset across the rolling hills and orchards.

She used to love hearing stories of Harry Potter when she was younger. She would always request them as her bedtime stories from her Mum and Dad. Her mum would tell her stories of the gallant young savior, coming to a princesses rescue while her dad would tell stories of his great adventures off with friends. She liked her dad's stories the best. After he told them, she would lie awake for hours imagining up great adventures she would take with Harry, performing amazing special magics, saving towns, finding lost treasures.

But then she met Harry.

She first met him when she was 10 and standing on the platform, dreading that her last brother was leaving her, wishing with all her might that she could go to Hogwarts a year early. She met him without realizing who it was. She scolded herself quite fiercely later, _How could you not know who he was! It's Harry Potter you daft girl. Harry Potter!_ Seeing him in person, made him real. She now had a face to put to her adventure companion. She just _knew_ they were going to be friends.

After one whole year of dreaming of all the great things she was going to do at Hogwarts, it was finally her year to go. She was already planning what her, Ron, and Harry Potter would get up to. They could sneak into the kitchens like Fred and George told her about! They could go for broom races late at night - they'd have to sneak out of course, but she'd been doing that for years, it couldn't be _that_ much harder at Hogwarts! They could explore the great castle and find all the secret rooms and passageways. It was going to be amazing.

But it wasn't amazing. Not at all. Ron was always off with Harry and Hermione, off in their own little world and she was left on her own. Ron ignored her, and it was like Harry didn't even know she existed.

But at least she had Tom. Tom would listen to her.

"I"

_It took about a month of me writing in the journal consistently before I realized Tom was up to no good. At first, I felt great relief at having a friend, someone I could talk to, who would pay attention to me unconditionally. He was always so concerned with my wellbeing, asking how I was feeling, how I was getting along with all the difficult schoolwork, with my brother and his friends ignoring me, without being able to play quidditch anymore._

_That's what tipped me off. He was so negative! Constantly nagging me, trying to bring me down. When I began to focus on it, I could feel the draw of the diary. It was like a small force in the back of my mind, pushing me. Write more, write down how you're feeling and everything will be better. If he was pushing me, could I push him?_

_So I kept on writing him, writing more and more, but never my true feelings, never my true thoughts, and slowly but surely, that niggling force in the back of my mind began to disappear. I had to be sneaky, Tom couldn't know what I was doing, I had to ask him questions in a way that made it seem like he was getting more from me._

Tom, _I'd write,_ don't you think that Hogwarts is a special place? _Wow, that question alone got him to go off on so many tangents. He kept on going on and on about how at home he felt at Hogwarts and how he alone had found all the secrets it could offer._

_That question still stands out so clearly in my mind because that was when I first felt it, the diary - or the diary's essence, whatever it was - was pouring back into me. I could feel it growing in me, my magic felt tingly._

_I felt powerful._

"III"

She was always told she was special. Her mum used to like to say, "you're the seventh child of the seventh child, you're one in a billion." She felt special too. She has a birthmark, a cluster of them really, in the perfect shape of the Seven Sisters on her side. When she was a little girl, her father would tell her the stories of the Seven Sisters, and her mum would tell her about how they could trace her lineage all the way back to Merope on her mother's side.

That made her feel powerful too. She was a direct descendent of one of the old gods!

The number 7 ran through her bloodline, storing magic and power, all of it landing in her.


	2. A Door In Stone

**Chapter 1**

**A Door in Stone**

**June 20, 2001**

She trudges up the hill outside of town, working her way around rock and short brush. The sun is low in the sky, casting a pale, baleful glow across the hillside, throwing the crags of stone into sharp relief. The path she is following is hard to pick out among the scree. It is seldom used; it probably hasn't seen anyone pass by in decades if not centuries. The town below is surrounded with many popular hiking trails - it's a busy tourist destination in the summer, people coming for the fjords, the midnight sun, and hiking. But this is a forgotten path, an old path, one only used by a select few since it was first walked. It has taken her ages to learn about it, let alone find it.

As she climbs further and further up the mountainside, the landscape grows from scree and scrub to large hulking boulders jutting up against the yellow sky. The path twists and turns, winding through the stones, and soon she has lost all bearing of whence she has come. It feels, for a moment, in the sharp silence that fills up the space between the tall rocks, like she has disappeared from the rest of the world; separated and lost. The silence brings her world down to just inside her perception. But, it is because of all this, she knows she is close.

The path seems to level out finally, and, with her legs burning from the ascent, she pauses for a moment and looks around. The path is fainter up here. She can barely see it's twisting path through the field of stone. The silence feels pervasive still, her ragged breath the only noise.

The sun is closer to the horizon, and it is dark here among the rocks. She glances down at her watch, it's two minutes til midnight. She has to move faster, but the path is so hard to see. She knows she must be close, she feels magic tingling along her skin.

She trudges on.

And then there is it. Around one turn and then another, in a deep hollow surrounded by a ring of tall stones, she sees it. It appears first as a deep shadow between two of the stone pillars. But then it catches her eye as she notices the surrounding rocks are lit up by bright sunlight - the shadow is artificial. The spot of darkness isn't just a shadow, but a void of light in the space between the stones. It has a physical presence, the void seems to exist. She wouldn't be able explain what that means if she tries, but she can sense it, sitting there between the towers of stone, lending a malevolence to the hollow she's standing in.

The hollow is completely silent, no wind, nor animal can be heard. Her footsteps don't even make a noise as she walks across the tough grass to the crevice.

Each step bringing her closer to the void.

She reaches one pale hand out, stretching through the space between her and the nothingness.

And then her fingers brush against it.

And there is silence in the hollow. No noise. No wind. No movement. No one.

The hollow sits as it has for the past thousand years. Undisturbed and untouched by the outside world. No sign that a girl had just traversed its empty crater. And between two tall pillars of stone a dark void fades into gentle shadow as the sun brushes gently against the horizon.


	3. The White Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the date - this takes place three years prior to the last chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you guys think.
> 
> \--upstater--

**Chapter 2** **  
** **The White Lady**

“I”

  
  


_ I think the idea of runes first came to me from Tom. I mean, as an eleven year old, I doubt I would have had a whole bunch of interest in learning ancient runes unless the idea had come from somewhere… Right? Anyways, I guess it doesn’t really matter how I came to studying them, only that I did. It’s lucky that Babbling is so nice, as well. I can’t imagine what she thought seeing little me knocking at her door asking about runes. It was last year, around Halloween, and ever since I’ve learned as much as I possibly can about them. I mean they’re fascinating! With only a low leveled powering spell you can make the most marvelous things happen!  _

_ I learned from Babbling today that your magic is still growing at the age of 12, so that’s why I’m unable to perform some harder spells, or they take longer to learn (I can learn most spells though). Although she also said I seem to have access to a fairly large amount of magic, sp there are very few runic powering sequences I struggle with.  _

_ For example, this week she was teaching me about wards (I read somewhere about Fidelis and just  _ needed _ to know more) and today, I was  _ finally _ able to create a mini Fidelis right on my desk after only two days of preparation! She completely forgot where her parchment had gone even though it was still right in front of her! She was amazed that I was able to create a localized version, apparently it's never been done before!!  _

_ Not to be  _ too _ much of a braggart (also who else is reading this but me! I can brag all I want)… But I’m only 12 and coming up with new forms of classical rune arrays and spells.  _

_ I can’t wait to try more! _

  
  


“III”

  
  


**March 16, 1998**

The library has long stood undisturbed and unbothered; hidden as it is. Dust lies thick upon the shelves and floor. The books themselves would have long ago degraded into dust were it not for the preservation runes layering the hall. The library hall is quite narrow but winds in a downward spiral that, if one were to follow it, seems to curve endlessly deep into the earth. There are no windows, no clocks, no indication of the outside world or passing time. And for centuries the library has remained ignored and forgotten by the world, until today.

One by one, the candles light as she walks deeper into the library’s curving hall. She would worry about the light alerting someone to her presence, but she knows no one is here. The hall seems to echo with silence, the only sound, her soft footsteps upon the flagstone. Each step sends up a plume of dust into the still air. 

The spiral of the library draws her deeper and deeper beneath the earth. Passing row upon row of bookshelves, Ginny descends for an unknown amount of time, hours seeming to pass in her endless trek. She has been searching for this library for a long time. It was one of the final steps to her realizing her goal, the one she has been working on since she was 14. 

The door appears quite suddenly -- hidden back between two deep shelves -- she almost passes it by, and she would have if it were not for the  _ point-me _ charm she had cast on her wand. The door is made from thick wood covered in wide iron banding. The banding is inlaid with deeply etched runes. 

_ It looks like Elder Furþoc _ , she believes,  _ oh wait, no, there’s ÿr… strange, so that’s Furþoc. But if it’s Furþoc, then this bind rune doesn’t make sense. Hmmm… Wait! That’s tēt, Phonecian… this was written by someone recently! Within the past few decades… _

Mixing runes is a modern practice, since it takes knowledge of various runic alphabets to be able to construct a usable array. But Ginny isn’t expecting anyone to have been down in the library within the last few centuries, at least the 14th century, but most likely the 12th. This changes things. She feels a trepidation creep down her spine like a chill, the feeling of being watched crawls over her skin and her wand is in her hand without a conscious thought. She had cast two spells of her own design,  _ Mortalis Revelio _ and  _ Malum Revelio _ , when she entered the library. They, respectively, reveal any creature that may be alive or possessing of some type of spirit, and reveal any trap, person, or spell that had the intent or purpose to cause harm to the caster. Both spells hadn’t revealed  _ anything _ within the library. And her spells never fail, so she knows that she can trust the results. 

_ Breathe, _ she tells herself,  _ no one is here right now. Who knows who created these. _

Examining them further, she realizes that they are rather shoddily created. The bind rune between  _ āc _ and  _ ür  _ weakens the array considerably. The runes are also etched on the outside on the bands, allowing her to break the array by erasing or changing one of the runes. As she translates the array in her head, she doesn’t find any hidden traps or warning runes. She reaches forward and mutters  _ Tabeo _ , the bands melt into a pool of metal at her feet, the wood of the door decays to dust and only an open doorway is left between her and… 

Paff.

Paff.

Paff.

There are light footsteps in the dust, circling down. 

“Damnit!” She swears,  _ Stupid, stupid, stupid. I forgot to check the back of the bands!  _ She berates herself for making such a rookie mistake. She has fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book. 

She whirls around, taking a defensive position behind the bookshelf in front of her, her back to the wall. The other bookshelves run flat against the wall, the only point of attack is in front of her. She draws out her wand angling it towards the curving path between the shelves, muttering shield spells under her breath. The spells are held in stasis in a ring on her right pinky, and it glows a dull black light as she casts each spell. 

She spins in a quick circle, casting “ _Accingo Anima,_ _Accingo Umbra!”_ as she does, a thin green line forming around her on the floor, throwing off small sparks. 

Around the shelf in front of Ginny, a woman, dressed all in white -- a white slip clinging to her, a white shawl billowing behind her -- glides tenuously. Her bare feet puffing up dust with each soft step she makes. She pauses, at the sight of Ginny crouched low with her wand aimed right at the woman’s chest. 

Her head quirks slightly to the side as she asks “Lo, young one, you have come far to be here. Are you alone?”

Ginny relaxes slightly, “And lo to you, Dame Blanche, I was not expecting to see you this morning. I do not pose harm to this home or its inhabitants.” 

The Dame looks slowly at the doorway behind Ginny, “I was called, so I came. Tell me, what are you looking for?”

Ginny steps out from behind the shelf, taking a few small steps toward the Dame, “I can release you, if you so wish, it has been almost 800 years, has it not?”

The Dame seems to flicker, white of her clothes and skin fading slightly, “This… this is impossible,” she manages, “It cannot be done. I  _ know  _ this.”

“I can, if you wish it,” replies Ginny, “I have done it in the past and I can do it again. No tether is too strong for me. Just say the words.” 

After a long drawn moment, the Dame quietly murmurs “I so wish it.”

With a deep breath Ginny raises her wand again, pointing it at the Dame Blanche, and, with a quick twist and jab of her wand, says “ _ Relego Meam,”  _ a jet of dark purple light strikes the apparition squarely in the chest, a long breath of a sigh seems to echo around the room as the Dame turns hazy at the edges, becoming nebulous in the air until she fades, clear and gone.

Ginny lets out her breath with relief. That could have been quite a disaster; Dame Blanches were known to trap someone in an endless loop for eons, if not an eternity. You have to be careful when talking with one, lest you get trapped by one of their questions or requests. 

She turns back to the doorway, hoping that the Dame was the only entity called by the runes on the door. 

She steps through the doorway, releasing her shield spells on the ground as she does. She keeps the ones stored in her ring, who knows if they may be useful as she goes into the unknown cavern in front of her.

  
  



	4. The Pub

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the present. Now that y'all are aware of the dates, I'll stop bugging you about it in the AN, just remember to keep an eye on them.. I'll bounce around a bit in the upcoming chapters. Thanks for reading, and as always, let me know what you think!  
> I use a lot of references to old myths and legends, let me know if you have spotted any!  
> Thanks for every one of the reviews!  
> Cheers,  
> -upstater-

**Chapter 3**

**The Pub**

"III"

**June 30, 2001**

Ginny sits at the age worn bar nursing a lager and feeling generally sorry for herself. The pub fits her mood perfectly — dark, dingy, and a little bit dangerous. She can feel tension building in her shoulders leaving her wanting to punch something, or someone. She wants to feel the sharp release of breaking something, smashing glass.

The pub sits squat upon the wharf sticking out into the harbor. It is a dull grey that blends in with the worn grey of the dock. It is completely unnoticeable, only a roughly painted red "Taverna" on a small sign hanging by the door condemns it for what it is. Inside, the bar is much of the same; worn grey, rough hewn wooden boards cover the floor, walls, ceiling, and bar. It is the  _ perfect _ place for her mood.

The door slams open and a group of loud sailors swagger their way into the pub calling for lager and whiskey. She stares into her beer, ignoring their brash tones, the amber liquid proving much more interesting than their posturing — her mind too occupied with the past week than anything they could possibly offer.

She sits leaning forward in her stool, twisting the ring on her right pinky finger, swirling the beer around in her glass, musing over the past ten days. It wasn't all bad, it's not like she didn't get what she wanted. It's just that she isn't entirely happy with the outcome. She had, afterall, found what she was looking for. The void had led her to where she expected to go, she had received the information she was looking for, but now… now she has to return to England. She has to go back  _ home _ .

She still thinks of England as home, of the Burrow as home, even though she hasn't lived there for a  _ long _ time; almost four years now. She had left on her journey immediately before her sixth year of school, no longer finding Hogwarts useful for continuing her education.

She had been only sixteen at the time, but she figured out how to break the trace when she was 12; she knows how to cover her tracks. She has plenty of money as well. Setting out on her own wasn't a big step because of the practicalities involved, but because of the implications. And sometimes, late at night when sleep won't come, she'll feel a pit form in her chest, and wonder at those implications, at how she left things — leaving in the middle of the night with no goodbye, no note, no nothing.

Now she has to go back, and see her family, her old friends — all the people she left behind. And she knows she will have to see them. Wizarding Britain is a small community. She can't avoid everyone she knows. And if it gets back to her family that she's in the country without letting them know, that would hurt them even further.

No, no, she'll have to see them. She knows that.

But that is what is fueling her dark mood.

Her sorry thoughts are interrupted by a hard bump against her shoulder that causes her to spill her beer across the bar.

_ Perfect.  _ She thinks, a shot of adrenaline courses through her, pairing perfectly with her anger.

"Excuse  _ you _ ," she says loudly, whirling around to face the large man standing a bit too close to her.

"Yeh," he stumbles, "’Scuse  _ you. _ "

His eyes linger on her body with an ugly leer, reeking of dark spirits.

"Jus' what is a piece o' ass like yerself doin' in a place like this, all alone?" He slurs, "Come! Keep me company! I could use some cheerin' up." He reaches out to steady himself, his hand comes to rest on her thigh.

Her eyes narrow, and turn cold.

_ Finally, _ she thinks, ready to break the tension she's felt since leaving the void, ready to feel something break under her fist.

In one fluid graceful movement she stands up and snaps her arm out, her closed fist colliding with the unfortunate man's throat; her bar stool smashing to the ground behind her.

He rears back, gasping and wheezing, his heel catches and the floor shakes as he goes down to his knees, his hands clawing at his neck as if it will help him draw a breath.

"Don't you  _ dare _ lay your  _ fucking _ hands on me you worthless. Blithering. Ass." she hisses coldly, staring down at him with all the fury that's been building in her for days.

The bar is silent. The air feels tight and full of a crackling static energy. The group of sailors chairs are pushed back or fallen over in their haste to stand when she dropped their comrade. But not one of them moved any closer, not after each new insult she lays upon the hapless man, she punctuates with a sharp blow leaving him in a heap at her feet.

She is left panting — fury boiling through her, staring down at the pitiful lump — as her haze of anger slowly clears and the tension, that shatter glass feeling, floats away.

_ Fuck. _

She pulls her hair out of her face into a ponytail. Straightens her shirt. Tosses a few coins on the bar. And steps over the man and strides out of the pub into the pale morning light.


	5. The Chariot, The Sisters, And The Number Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN at the end.

**Chapter 4**

**The Chariot, The Sisters, And The Number Seven**

  
  


“I”

  
  


_I think Dumbledore has a way of knowing things that happen here. I just can’t figure out what it is! And I must figure it out. I was first alerted to this possibility today when he approached me and asked if I would like to pursue his private library on Ancient Runes. He then said, I may find some in his collection more interesting than those I could possibly find in the Restricted Section. How does he know I was in the Restricted Section!? I was so careful sneaking in there last night._

_My theories as of now are he can turn himself invisible, the paintings snitch to him, or… I don’t know. The castle tells him? I will find out one of these days. Maybe I should just ask him…?_

_Anyways, he told me to come by promptly after dinner this evening and he will let me look through his library at my leisure. It’s all I could ever ask for! He probably has the most secretive and rare of texts. I’m already well on my way to becoming a Runic Master (Babbling said I could take the Master test early if my parents allow it… but I can’t imagine asking them…) anyways, so I’m sure that his library will be all the more useful._

_I’m really looking for other runic alphabets. Babbling only focuses on Furþoc, Elder_ and _Younger, but still, there are so many more to learn!_

  
  


“III”

  
  


**March 16, 1998**

Her ring glints brightly in the dull light of the open chamber as she steps through the doorway. She moves a cautious few steps into the room, her boots crunching on bits of the door that have fallen into decay, her wand out and ready. She casts a few spells, testing for traps or any hidden curses and relaxes a bit when nothing appears. She can never be too cautious though, she thinks, as she double checks the spells stored in her ring.

She is _especially_ proud of her ring. She made it when she was 14 and just beginning Dumbledore’s tutelage. She came up with the idea after learning about the basics of how Rune Stones work. Rune Stones act as an anchor for a runic array, keeping it grounded to a magical link, typically a ley line or a storing crystal, or, often to one's own demise, a human being. Anyways, a Rune Stone is a channel between the reaction the caster is desiring and the magical source of power. But when broken down to basics, it is a vessel that holds coded instructions.

_As Dumbledore is teaching her late one afternoon the intricacies of creating a Rune Stone, she is hit with an idea, an inspiration._

_She asks, “Sir, typically Rune Stones are used for wards or other such permanent and stationary charms, right?”_

_He pauses in his explanation of connection sequences, “Yes, that is correct.”_

_“Can you create a moveable Rune Stone?”_

_“Many a bright wizard has tried to create a moving ward, but no one has ever succeeded,” he replies, “You see, a ward requires a significant amount of magical energy and…” he breaks off, “You have that look in your eye again Ginny, what is it?”_

_“Well sir, what if the Rune Stone isn’t for a ward, what if it’s for something that requires less energy, that say the caster or wearer would be able to provide?”_

_“Interesting. I’m assuming you have something in mind then? It sounds as if you’ve thought this out. What is it then?” he smiles, looking fondly at his student._

_“Okay, well I was thinking, what if you create a Rune Stone as a holding stage for a spell. You could use a binding between_ isaz _and_ thurisaz _. We could even add in_ ehwaz _! If we could do a triple binding! Then,_ then _that could mitigate any lost energy from storage._ Or _if the binding is strong enough, the spells could even gain strength as they’re held! It would be like one of those muggle batteries you were telling me about sir.”_

 _She is_ quite _excited by the end of her explanation._

_Dumbledore looks at her, his eyes twinkling as he takes in her animation._

_“I think that might just work. I think that might just work,” he muses, “Now, why don’t you give it a try.”_

So yes, she is _especially_ fond of her ring. 

And now, it glows with a gentle black light, the sign that all of its spells are held inside correctly, ready to use as she looks around the room.

The chamber is quite empty. It exists in the center of the downward spiral of the library’s hall, a circular room that could be easily missed. The curved walls are made of stone and are bare of any decorations save for an empty torch bracket. In the center of the room, standing as the room’s only adornment, is a pedestal. And sitting on the pedestal is a book. The book’s cover glints in her wand light, rippling like oil across water.

She knows this is _the_ book that she’s been looking for. It is exactly where the old texts said it should be. 

She first learned of this book while exploring Dumbledore’s personal library. She was reading an exhaustive tome called _Saxonum Graecorum Traditione Adducti Dispersionis_ or _Saxon Traditions Influenced by the Greek Diaspora._ It was written by a frumpy old wizard named Herbanicus Herbanicax. In a small section under the history of a castle in Brittany, was a legend of a hidden library, a lost Roman historian, and a lineage of gods.

She reaches out tentatively, touching the dappled surface of the lustrous book, her fingers brushing gently against the surface of the book. The cover ripples under her touch, as a stone dropped in still water, and with a rush, the book flies open flipping through pages until falling still, open to an entry.

She leans in closer to read it, bringing her wand light closer. 

She gasps. 

On the left page is a drawing of a constellation, one she would know from anywhere — it matches the birthmark she has on her side — the Pleiades; the seven sisters. 

She looks eagerly over to read what is written on the other page, κόρη των πλισέ. She shakes her head, quickly casting a translation charm and the letters and words wriggle on the page, rearranging themselves to read: 

_Daughter of the Pleiades._

_The Daughter of Pleiades, alone among seven,  
_ _Born seven of the seventh,  
_ _Lost within mortal company she is,  
_ _With purpose of own or other.  
_ _Once given gift from maze in dark fellowship keep,  
_ _then Daughter of Pleiades’ power will awaken,  
_ _Her power will flow, in glade and grove,  
_ _Deep and True,  
_ _A Chariot between man and soul._

Her mind reels, spinning with the inscription, all of the old bedtime stories her mum used to tell floating around her thoughts. She had never dreamed to believe that the stories had any purchase in reality, that they were true. But this, this was clearly talking about her. _Born seven of the seventh_ , the seventh child of a seventh child, _alone among seven_ , the only daughter among six brothers, _lost within mortal company,_ she hadn’t lived among a magical community since she was sixteen. 

This was her. 

This was ancient writing about _her._

She takes a few deep, calming breaths. _Okay, okay. What does this really mean?_ How does this change her plans? She rereads it. Then again several more times, until she has wrapped her mind around it’s meaning. 

The only thing that it tells her that is new information is that her “powers” will awaken after she visits Svartalfheim, which she was already planning on doing, as soon as she can find the entrance to the damn place… It hints at what her “powers” might be, flowing deep and true in glade and grove, a chariot between man and soul. No wait, Chariot is capitalized. She can’t suppose what that might mean though. A Chariot. 

A low rumble rises up through the floor, shaking the pedestal. Several books thump to the ground in the library hall.

_Okay, time to go!_

She pulls out a tiny digital camera and snaps a quick picture of each page. Then, not wanting to stick around to find out just what is causing the rumbling, she turns and runs out of the room. 

She runs up and up, twisting around the library spiral as the rumbling grows louder and louder. Books fall off the shelves all around her as the floor shakes with the noise. A billow of dust flies behind her like a cloud of locusts as she sprints out of the hall, through the castle and out into the daylight. She skids to a stop just past to moat, feeling the edge of the wards release her reluctantly. 

And then all that is left is the fading echo of a crack of apparition, and the deep hollow rumbles drifting slowly away into silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 is going up later today!


	6. The First Tattoo

**Chapter 5**

**The First Tattoo**

“I”

_ I asked Dumbledore to perform Legilimency on me today. I  _ needed  _ to know what it is like. Ever since learning about the art of Occlumency and Legilimency, I’ve had the suspicion of what Tom’s diary was trying to do to me back in First Year.  _

_ Dumbledore was shocked at first, I guess by the fact that I even knew what it was, nevertheless that I was asking him to perform it on me. He protested, convinced that I didn’t know what I was asking for. But I explained to him how could I possibly protect myself against such a vile intrusion if I didn’t even know what it felt like? After a bit of persuasion he saw my way.  _

_ He started with a ‘light glance,’ as he called it, enough Occlumency to get a bit of my emotions or concepts of what my thoughts were if they were particularly strong. It felt like I was trying to remember something I wanted to say, but it also felt slightly alien.  _

_ He then tried a ‘gentle probe’, or a more specific look at my thoughts. He said he could get a sense of a thought pattern, how it was structured, and if it was obvious in my mind, he could tell if I was lying or telling the truth. I definitely felt it then! It was like something was brushing against my mind, a little niggling feeling that something is off.  _

_ Then, lastly, he tried his ‘searching probe,’ or a full scan through my thoughts. He said if he was doing this on an untrained Occlumens (such as me) all of their thoughts and mind would be open to him, there was nothing he could not take. But it wouldn’t be subtle. He made sure to warn me of that. I would be able to feel him rummaging through my thoughts. He made sure I really wanted him to do this, and I have to admit I wasn’t sure, I didn’t know if I wanted him seeing all my thoughts! But, I needed to know what it would feel like, so I steeled myself and said yes, go ahead. And nothing happened. Dumbledore looked at me, I looked at him, but nothing happened. He furrowed his brow and I began to feel something, someone rummaging around. And I  _ definitely _ didn’t like that!! But then it stopped as soon as it started.  _

_ He was most surprised! Apparently I’m a natural Occlumens! He was very impressed, though I have my own suspicions. It definitely has something to do with Tom. _

_ I now know for certain that Tom’s diary was using some form of Legilimency on me. That niggling feeling I felt in the back of my brain when I first started writing him, and since I was able to get him back, to trick him into confiding in _ me _ , I guess I was unconsciously working on my Occlumency? I will have to put more thought to it later. I am quite tired after all that rummaging.  _

_ I also will need something to protect myself, I don’t like the idea of anyone having access to my mind again. I can practice Occlumency as well, but there should always be a backup shouldn’t there? _

“III”  


**February 8th, 2008**

She stands gripping the basin of the sink, staring into the mirror, into her own eyes. She looks past the pale blue that they have become since her ascension, she looks past her thoughts. She looks past. She can feel the icy burning of the tattoos on her skin. They are cool to her touch and they burn with power. 

She got her first tattoo when she was 15. It was a triple binding between  _ algiz _ ,  _ ehwaz _ , and  _ laguz _ . She set it into her own skin with only a spell and her intent. For what was magic but not intent  — but not the caster’s will? And her’s, her’s is stronger than glass-shattering diamonds, stronger than the passions of a tempest. Her will runs deep. As deep and hot as her fury. 

The tattoo is a protection called zel. Her mind is her own, and it will never fall to another, zel ensures that. _Algiz_ provides the channel for her magic while also acting as the shield. _Laguz_ is her mind, the hidden part of her, her subconscious, her emotions. And with her natural affinity towards water she has a _particular_ connection with _laguz._ _Ehwaz_ is the connecting rune, ensuring that the binding between the other two won’t fail, providing the power through the channel and amplifying it within her subconscious protections. 

Her mind is her own. And it will not fall.

At first, the tattoo was linked directly to her magic, it would fail when her magic would fail, and for someone like her, with such strong will, her magic was unlikely to fail. But, that was a dangerous link to make. If someone was to attack her mind, the runes would have drawn on her magic to keep the protection around her mind running, and while she had strong magic, it still was a finite resource. Well, before her ascension, her magic was finite, now it is a different matter. 

But she had already changed the channel over a decade ago, and it is safer now anyways. 

When she had first realized the danger of her first channel between her magic and the tattoos, she had tried to develop a new way to power her tattooed runes,  _ especially  _ as she began adding more tattoos, they couldn’t  _ all  _ be drawing on her magic. 

She had toyed with an idea similar to her ring, but instead of storing spells, it would just store magic to power her tattoos. She couldn’t use stone like her ring was made out of, it would get too hot. Individually cast spells leaked their energy in the form of light, often not putting off too much heat if any at all. But storing raw magical energy displaced a lot of heat. 

So she turned to runes to find the solution.

She also began studying muggle energy storage and conduction. Through these studies, she developed a coin that could store large amounts of power, discharge little to no heat, and would be self charging. 

The array was much more complicated than any she had created before; it was made from  _ ehwaz  _ (to transport the energy to the runes, and to bring power to the coin) _ , ingwaz _ (to keep the energy balanced within the coin) _ , thurisaz _ (to focus the intent of the energy to the desire of each tattooed rune) _ , üruz  _ (to increase the durability of the coin, so it wouldn’t wear out over time) _ , tiwaz _ (to initiate the draw of power when needed, and to keep the energy contained within the coin) _ , isaz _ (to minimize the heat produced by the stored energy as well as stabilize it) _ ,  _ and  _ algiz _ (to act as the channel between source, coin, and rune). 

At the age of 15 and almost four years into practicing runes, it had been her most complex array ever. 

The ring was designed as a coil of copper wire wound tightly around and around in a flat spool, and then encased in bronze. The bronze was cast with dragon’s blood and phoenix ash, leaving the coin consistently cool to the touch no matter the amount of energy stored within. 

The coin ended up being an inch in diameter, and is currently threaded onto a golden chain hanging around her neck. It attends to the zel array on her back at the base of her neck, as well as the  _ sōwilo _ and  _ tiwaz _ bindings she has on each forearm and calf, the  _ daguz, üruz, _ and  _ fehu _ she has tattooed onto her right shoulder, and a triple binding between  _ mannaz, isaz, _ and  _ perth _ on her chest. She has two more magical tattoos, but they don’t require any powering. Two  _ ihwaz _ runes appeared on both of her palms after her ascension. They don’t require additional power from her, but they do burn with their own power. 

The coin hangs now against her chest dipping down between her breasts, brushing against the triple binding there. The golden bronze glints in the white light of the bathroom, a gleam of warmth among the sterile setting. 

A harsh clanging siren rents the air, and she sighs, pulling her shirt on over her head, and pulling her eyes away from the mirror and her memories. 

She makes her way onto the deck past running sailors, and looks out over the harsh sea, feeling more at peace among the rough waves than she ought to, and readies herself for their landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we’re getting into the meat of things! The story is starting! All this backstory will finish being fleshed out in flashbacks but no more full chapters just devoted to backstory. Unless I change my mind in the future. Who knows. But hey. The Story is Starting.
> 
> I’ll give a ~Gold Star~ to anyone who can tell me what her other tattoos mean! Yes, all the runes I’ve written about are real, based on real meaning behind them too. Each tattoo has a singular purpose brought together by the runes they’re made up from. Each rune does have many meanings, but there are connections between them that become apparent in the bindings and arrays. (A bind rune is made of two or more mashed into one rune, an array is a string of bind or individual runes - basically a word or a sentence).
> 
> As always, rate and review please!
> 
> \--upstater--


	7. A Long And Winding Staircase

**Chapter 6  
** **A Long And Winding Staircase**

“III”

  
  


**February 8, 2008**

Peter Johnson is new to the unit. He was transferred to the remote island as a punishment. He knows it and his new officers know it. And now he is just trying to get by. 

_ Just follow your orders, don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself, be a good soldier and maybe you can get off of this rock someday soon _ , he repeats over and over in his head as a mantra.  _ Just follow your orders. _

And that is how he ends up standing out on the docks awaiting some important visitor his Commander is being  _ decidedly _ vague about. Not that he deserves any answer. Which is  _ exactly  _ what Captain West shouted at him for his impertinence when he asked. 

He often gets singled out by the officers for the tasks no one wants to do. And currently, standing on the dock getting whipped by wind and water, blinking the salt out of his eyes, he can’t help but feel a bit miserable and sorry for himself. 

_ Why me? _

“You’re to act as escort for the consultant. Keep your eyes ahead. Keep your ears closed. And your mouth shut. You’re only getting clearance for this position because of the departure today. DO YOU UNDERSTAND MARINE?” Captain West shouts in his face, his voice barely audible over the crashing waves, howling wind, and clanging siren of the approaching ship.

Marine Johnson snaps to attention, “Sir, yes sir!” 

And he tries his best. He really does. 

But God. Damn. He is  _ not _ expecting the consultant to be so... so,  _ captivating _ .

As she strides purposefully down the gangway, his eyes track up the black leather boots, up long slender legs, up her torso wrapped tight in a form fitting turtleneck, a shoulder holster strapped around her chest, the black leather bindings accentuating her form in an entirely distracting way. An all black  Heckler & Koch USP pistol is strapped to the right side of the holster, and what looks like a long stick is on the left side. But the strangeness of that stick isn’t enough to distract Johnson from her eyes, her hair, her  _ face.  _

Her eyes are a bright startling blue, almost white. They stand out stark against the bright mane of red hair that flows around her face. She appears entirely unbothered by the spray of the waves and frigid wind. 

She pauses to pull the hair that is whipping around her face up into a high ponytail, glancing around at the dock, taking in the island, the base, him. Her eyes meet his for a brief moment — his mind stutters and he feels laid bare. Stripped, his soul scraped out across the rocks for her to see. And, he knows, in that moment, truly, that he is but chaff beneath her. 

Then the moment is over, her eyes moving past him, as she strides over to the Captain .

“Ah Oliver, nice to see you again,” she says, shaking Captain West’s hand. Her voice lilts, drifting through the howling wind like a leaf in a glade.

“And you, Burya. Always glad to engage your services.”

She smiles slightly, “Shall we?”

**\----**

Captain Oliver West is a man who accepts nothing short of simple perfection in his life, his unit, and his base. He wakes up at 0500 sharp every morning. He eats three eggs and a bowl of oatmeal. He runs. He stretches. He maintains himself, his body, his health, and his appearance. This morning was no different. Right up until Admiral Attwood knocks on his door at 0600 and hands him a small metal cube made of pure solid bronze.

As soon as his fingers make contact, a rush of images, thoughts, and memories come spinning in. And then, he remembers; and his world doesn’t seem quite so simple anymore.

West can barely contain his eye roll at Marine Johnson’s behavior when the consultant arrives. Not that he truly blames him. Chloe Burya is a marvel. Beautiful, yes, she is a head-turner in any room, but she has a presence about her. Something alluring. Something dangerous.

He can understand the boy’s stunned slack-jawed stare. 

But Oliver West knows. He knows about her. And, he isn’t ashamed to admit it, he is frightened by her. He reckons anyone in their right mind would be frightened by her if they know what he does. 

She steps towards him in greeting, extending her hand, her eyes piercing him like a bolt from the heavens. 

It is all he can do to string together his polite response, thankful when she lets go of his hand and he can turn away, to lead them back into the base.

“Let’s get out of this frightful weather, shall we?” He shouts.

She glances around, looking like she just noticed the tempest howling around them. 

“Mm, I quite enjoy a nice storm, don’t you?” she ponders, a spark of mischief in her tone.

The door closes with an aching boom, locks churning into place, the roaring of the wind cut off, replaced by an echoing silence. 

West turns toward his commanding officers lined up on the inside hallway — the ones with clearance — and reintroduces them to Chloe Burya. She nods politely to each of them, moving down the line, ending at the Admiral, where she pauses. 

“Ah, Admiral Antony Attwood. Admiral Fields and General Clayton give their regards,” her voice cold and sharp.

The Admiral’s smile falters, snapping under her brittle tone.

“Oh and Harmon wanted me to say hello.” Her grin is almost predatory now.

Attwood swallows with an audible click.

“Yes… yes, well that is good. You must give them all my regards when you see them next.” He is unable to hold her gaze. 

The air feels stuffy and humid. The silence stretching on and on. 

Then Captain West clears his throat loudly, and calls for the consultant’s escort company to move out. 

\----

The group of five marches with studied solemnity down one of the grey corridors. Two in front, the consultant in the middle, and two in back. The noise of their boots clang on the metal grating, echoing off of the walls. 

The woman, standing in between the four men, wears all black. The four men walk with brisk formality, standing ramrod straight in their pressed grey uniforms, a contrast to the woman’s casual ease. The only color in the place comes from her bright red hair, pulled back in a high ponytail. 

\----

Marine Peter Johnson is confused. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. It’s the consultant, Burya, the captain called her. Her gaze feels alien. He shivers, remembering it. And  _ then _ the consultant gives the Admiral ( _ the Admiral of all people!)  _ a dressing down, and,  _ and,  _ he looks cowed. 

_ What the hell is going on!?  _

Captain West leads their group into the elevator. He inserts a key into a hidden slot that Johnson has never noticed before, looking at Burya who pulls that stick out of her shoulder holster and places it next to the key. 

_ What is going on?? _

The elevator rumbles into service, and they begin to descend; the elevator creaking and groaning as they move. 

\----

Ginny sighs internally. These navy men are always the same. Stiff and stern with their ranks and orders shoved so far up their asses they can barely walk without turning it into a march.

Whenever she is on one of these  _ assignments _ , she stays cold and aloof, pushing a bit of her legilimency training to the forefront, barely brushing against their feeble minds. And with that, all the stiff stuffy men’s composures go crumbling about her feet. 

They don’t recognize what she’s doing as mind reading — they are muggles after all — but they do know something is wrong and that it has to do with her. 

She can feel the marine’s thoughts from where she is standing without even making eye contact, he’s thinking so loudly. His confusion fills the tense air in the elevator.

She sighs again, rubbing her temples. 

She needs to do something about the Admiral as well. Another thing to deal with.

With a groan of protest, the elevator rumbles to a stop. Captain West slides the door open with a clash, and gestures for her to go first.

The elevator opens into a small room painted grey like the rest of this miserable base. There’s a heavy metal door across from the elevator. It has no apparent handle or way to open it. For a good reason. Ginny is the only one who has access to this door. She’s the only one who knows about this door most of the time.

She presses her wand against the door and mutters,  _ “Crepito.” _

With a loud clunk the door swings open, she motions for them to proceed. Candles flicker on as they step through the door, down, down, down out of sight. They’re standing at the top of a long winding staircase circling around a long cylindrical shaft.

“Let’s go marines!” West barks. 

And they begin their march down.

And down.

And down.

  
  


**May 8, 1997**

_ The long staircase twists it way up, winding between the stone walls. A clack… clack… clack... echoes in the stairwell as the stone steps slide ever higher. Ginny stands motionless on the first stair she stepped on, watching the magical stairs twist and wind their way up to Dumbledore’s office.  _

_ With a hollow ssnnnk, the stone she’s standing on slides into place at the landing. She looks up at the large door, wipes her hands on the inside of her robes, and reaches up to knock. _

_ “Enter,” comes the call from inside, before her hand can make purchase with the door. _

_ The door swings open of its own accord and Ginny walks in. _

_ “Hello Professor, you wished to see me?” _

_ “Ah, yes, Ginevra, do come in and make yourself comfortable,” Dumbledore replies, gesturing to the plush chair in front of his desk, “Would you like a lemon drop? I find them quite enjoyable.” _

_ Ginny shakes her head, “No, thank you sir.” _

_ “Well, I find myself intrigued, Ginevra, by some of your more recent questions that you have been posing to your professors. And I wish to be of assistance,” he says, looking at her over steepled fingers.  _

_ “And which questions might those be, professor?” _

_ “Those inquiring into the nature of magic. I believe you have some questions regarding the basic laws of magic, correct?” _

_ She sits up straighter in her chair, leaning forward. “Oh, yes sir! I’ve been wondering, do we have an unlimited amount of magic available to us? Is magic a resource? Or is it ‘alive’ in a way? How do we, but not muggles access it? What are its limitations? How is wandless magic possible? Why isn’t it taught?” _

_ Dumbledore chuckles, lifting a hand to cut off her litany of questions.  _

_ “Magic is the universal energy of the cosmos. Muggles know it by a different name, although they don’t yet know what it is.” _

_ “Really?? What do they call it? What do they think it is?” _

_ “They call it Dark Energy. Now, they don’t mean dark in the way you and I would when we talk about Dark Magic. The muggles labeled it as such because they are able to recognize it’s force on the universe, but they are not able to see it,  _ or _ describe it.  _

_ “But we are at a slight advantage. While most wizards cannot explain to you what magic is, there are those among us, myself included, who have made a study of such things. While muggles cannot inherently interact with their Dark Energy, or our Magic, we can. I believe a muggle would call us the next-step-in-evolution. _

_ “We can get into why we, wizards, are able to interact with Magic later, but let us first answer your other question: what is magic? How does that sound?” _

_ “That sounds great sir, thank you!” She bounces on the edge of her seat, leaning forward in her excitement.  _

_ Dumbledore chuckles, “Alright, let us begin.” _

  
  


**February 8, 2008**

After nearly a quarter an hour of descent, the stairs finally come to an end.

“Johnson, Quail, you stay here.” Barks Captain West. 

With a salute, the two marines snap to attention. They’re standing at the bottom of the long cylindrical shaft the staircase wraps around. It seems to be carved out directly from the island bedrock, deep underground. Across from the bottom of the stairs is a large arched opening leading to another room hollowed out from stone. The room glows with a red light, emitting from a large stone in the middle of the floor. 

The stone protrudes from the floor, a rough spear of rock, like an obelisk keeling over. 

Johnson’s heart pounds loud in his ears. The stone seems to flicker as if heatwaves are rising off of it. The air crackles and shimmers. His skin aches. 

_ What is this. What is going on. _

Burya pulls a square bag the size of a small notebook out from one of her pockets. She reaches inside, far too deep for the size of the bag and brings out a long bar of bronze. It flickers gold and red in the light of the stone, rippling like water.

Johnson is beyond confused at this point. So many things have happened that he cannot explain, his mind has just given up. This whole bizarre morning has been so strange. Maybe, maybe someone will explain what is going on. Eventually. 

Burya is using that stick again, muttering things. The bronze bar is wrapping itself around the stone, setting itself into it. The light changes from a dark red to a brilliant white, flaring around the room. The air cracks and hums with a loud retort.

Johnson shields his eyes from the sudden brightness.

When his eyes adjust, the Captain, the Commander, and the consultant are back in the stair room. The archway is gone. A perfect seamless wall fills where it was.

The air feels cool now. Static. No more of the crepitations. 

“Alright Oliver,” Burya is saying, “The wards are now set, they should hold, bar any serious magical attack. This is the last installment I needed to make.”

_ What?? Magical!? _

Johnson shakes his head, sure that stone thing has messed with his hearing.

“Alright men, onto the circle,” she commands, gesturing to a circle etched on the floor. 

They all step on to it, Johnson notices no one says anything about her giving out commands now.

“ _ Ascendio,” _ she snaps. And with a smooth motion, the circle begins to rise.

\----

The wind whips across the docks. The storm throws waves against the rocks, their spray filling the air.

Ginny breathes in the sea air with relief. The anger of the storm makes her shiver with glee. This is what it means to be alive! The wind pulls at her clothes, grabs at her hair like a needy lover, and she laughs out loud. A pure joyful sound. 

The men around her break into smiles, unable to help themselves under the force of her joy. 

She takes a deep breath again, turning back to the men standing behind her. All the serious soldiers. 

“Here,” she says, passing out flat square metal coins to each of them, “Take one please.”

They each take one, they all know what they are by now. Besides the young one, Peter, his name was. He looks at his with confusion. 

“Don’t worry Peter,” she calls “All will be okay soon.”

He looks startled as she addresses him, perhaps a bit frightened. 

But it doesn’t get to her. It can’t, not among a storm such as this. She feels too alive to be bothered by his fear.

She nods at the soldiers, and boards the ship waiting for her.

As the ship pulls through the angry waves out to the open sea, she issues a soft command to the square coin she holds in her hand, and just like that, every last man on the island has all forgotten about a strange morning visit from a woman named Chloe Burya.

They’re left standing on the docks, wondering where their Admiral got to, and why they’re all out in the cold. 

Metal coins drop to the ground, completely forgotten and completely ignored until the sea takes them away and they are truly gone for good.

On board the ship, as they pass out of the wards she set on the island, Ginny passes out more coins to the sailors on the ship. 

With a crack, she apparates away, and the sailors too forget about a woman named Chloe Burya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized after I published Chapter 5 yesterday that it was Wednesday and not Tuesday! Having the day off on Monday messed up my days, anyways, here’s the next chapter only a day later! I hope you all enjoy it.
> 
> I appreciate every review and love to hear your feedback! So please read rate and review
> 
> Cheers!  
> \--upstater--


	8. A New Illusion

####  **Chapter 7**  
 **A New Illusion**

“III”

**May 8, 1997**

_ “I ask that you bear with me as I work my way through explaining some basics of muggle science,” Dumbledore says, peering at her over his half-moon glasses.  _

_ Ginny nods her head enthusiastically.  _

_ “Very well.  _

_ “Beyond this planet we live on, there is the universe. It is made up of the things we can see, and the things we cannot. The things that we can see are called normal matter and energy. Matter is all material substance, and energy is anything with the ability to perform actions.  _

_ “Then there are the things that we cannot see — muggles call these things dark matter and dark energy. Dark matter is matter that is unobservable by humans. It does not emit, reflect, or block light on any spectrum. Muggles know it exists because they are able to see the force it takes on its surroundings. All objects with mass exert a force called gravity, do you know what this is?” _

_ Ginny nods again, “Yessir, as things gain mass, they basically create a dent in the space-time continuum. This is gravity. That’s how objects attract other objects to themselves — through gravity.” _

_ “Very good. That is exactly how it works. So through this attraction, muggles were able to posit that there is more gravity being exerted upon celestial bodies that they cannot account for from normal matter alone. Therefore there must be something that we cannot see; ergo: dark matter. _

_ “Now dark energy, as the muggles explain it, makes up sixty-eight percent of the universe. Dark matter makes up twenty-seven percent, and the remaining five percent is made up of normal matter. Dark energy is a force that works in opposition to dark and regular matter; it is a force that works in opposition of gravity. The muggles have known for around a century that the universe is expanding. Now, as we know, matter cannot be created or destroyed, so as the universe expands, it becomes less dense. This means that the rate of expansion should slow down as it grows ever larger. However, the muggles have noticed that galaxies at the edge of the observable universe are moving away from us at a much faster rate than the galaxies that are closer to us; therefore positing that there is a force that is speeding up the expansion. And that is where dark energy comes in. _

_ “Do you have any questions?” _

_ “So basically, to muggles, dark matter and dark energy are two things that they cannot see but explain things they cannot explain?” _

_ Dumbledore chuckles, “That sounds about right, yes.” _

_ “Okay, I understand their version, what is ours? What is magic — dark energy — to us?” _

_ “Magic exists all around us. It is an integral building block of nature — of you and me, this desk, the air,” Dumbledore states, gesturing to the room around him. _

_ “We, witches and wizards — well some of us — are able to sense it. We can feel its influence on the natural world; and as wizards, we are able to interact with it. Muggles do not have this ability.  _

_ “There are those who would have you believe that magic is dwindling in our world. The Pureblood sects, Voldemort’s old followers, the Ministry, they all are perpetrating that myth and propaganda. However, if one is to study Magic, as we are now, they would know that this just is not true. In fact it is impossible. Magic is consistent throughout time. That means that it cannot grow or subtract ever.  _

_ “Let’s go back to the idea of the universe expanding. Dark energy is what muggles call the ‘cosmological constant.’ It is a constant force that is unchanging over time. This explains the increased rate of expansion. As forces such as gravity weaken their grips between galaxies, the force dark energy pushes on them increases its effect—” _

_ Dumbledore glances at her mid speech. “I apologize, I quite enjoy muggle hypotheses and science; I can prattle on for ages. But let us get back to Magic.” _

_ “It’s okay professor, I find this all very interesting.” _

_ He smiles at her, “Yes it is, isn’t it? Alright, where were we— Ah, yes.  _

_ “Magic is constant throughout time, it cannot grow, diminish, or fade away. We — and I mean wizards in general, present company excluded,” he says, eyes twinkling, “are just losing our creativity.” _

“III”

**February** **15, 2008**

There is something dripping — a persistent sound echoing around the chambers. Each drip, drip, drip, crawls across her skin like a nail snagging on clothes. She grits her teeth in annoyance. This had better be worth it. 

It’s almost been seven years. Seven years since she visited Svartalfheim. Seven years since she first came back to England. Seven bloody years she’s been looking for Gleipnir. This lead had better  _ fucking _ pan out. 

She is tired. The purpose behind her search is mired in the muck each passing year leaves in her mind. Or perhaps that's just now, far beneath the earth as she is, far away from the sea, far away from the tumbling streams, far away from windswept lakes. The only bit of water here is in the drip, drip, drip. 

Her mind grows foggy here. So far beneath the earth.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Tck.

She pauses,  _ what was that? _

Tck. 

It sounds between the irritating dribble. 

Tck. 

Her mind clears in an instant. Adrenaline and experience pushing out the fog. She whirls in a quick circle, hiding her presence behind a spell-line, extinguishing the light from her wand as she does.

The deep pit goes dark without her spell-light. Only a slight glimmer of light high above the chambers allows her to see the faint outlines of the rocky walls. 

In the silence that follows, she realizes the noise is coming from small pebbles falling from one of the cave’s walls, pattering onto the hard ground. She crouches, pointing her wand in the direction of the falling stones, wishing she had more cover to crouch behind. The spell she cast on the ground creates a barrier that simulates the natural environment. Anyone who would look at her would see a rock wall three feet ahead of where it actually is. The only issue with the spell, is that it doesn’t create a physical barrier — leaving her out in the open if spells start flying, or if anyone decides to lean against it. 

But it will have to do for now. She cannot tell why the rocks are falling. Is someone coming down the pit? Or is there a low vibration that she can’t feel shaking some of the stones free?  _ What is it? _

Her questions are answered just as she thinks them. The wall across from her seems to ripple in the faint light, drawing in on itself. Then with a loud  _ whumpff _ , the wall explodes outward — rocks and debris flying at her.

Bright and clear spell-light comes spilling in through the gaping hole, illuminating the chamber. The light catches on the suspended dust in the air, refracting around the cave, making it glow with a soft grey radiance. A low muttered spell banishes the dust from the air while another sends an orb of light hovering at the height of the chamber. 

Ginny casts a silent spell to muffle her coughs, clearing the dust from her lungs. Her shield spell had protected her from the rocks projectiling at her from the explosion. She tenses as she hears the spells cast,  _ there are wizards here. How did they get here?  _ Why _ are they here? _

Two figures climb over top the pile of rubble that fills the ground of the cave, silhouetted against the light. They’re casting their wands across the walls, clearly looking for something. 

“Sir,” one of them says, pointing towards Ginny. She knows they can’t see her but she double checks her spell-line to make sure. And there, at the corner of the line, a large boulder extends across it.  _ Damnit _ . She recognizes that voice.  _ Damnit _ , she thinks again. She recognizes them. 

_ Of-fucking-course they’d be here. Of course they’d be here together. _

  
  


“III”

**May 8, 1997**

_ “Magical power doesn’t change that much between each individual, no matter how much some people would like you to believe that. Pureblood rhetoric states that they’re inherently more powerful than muggleborns or halfbloods.  _

_ “This, of course, isn’t true,” lectures Dumbledore, “Where we begin seeing a lack in magical prowess is in the lack of creativity. Many people accredit me with great power as a wizard. And while I acknowledge these claims, I know that it truly is in my creativity as a spellcaster that makes me great. Of course there are other attributes that lend themselves to achieving greatness as a witch or wizard. Academia lends itself naturally  _ — _ hence these lessons.  _

_ “The more one knows about the subject in which they seek attainment, the more successful they can be. By even asking about the fundamentals of magic, Ginevra, you have set yourself apart from your peers  _ — _ from most wizards in fact. Many of our kind simply take for granted the marvels that magic allows us _ — _ ”  _

_ A knock sounds at the door, interrupting his lesson. _

_ “Come in,” Dumbledore calls, the door swinging open with his gesture. _

_ “Hello professor, I’m here for our meeting _ — _ ” Harry Potter walks through the doorway, cutting short when he catches sight of Ginny. “Oh, sorry sir, I can come back later?” _

_ “Ah, Harry, no no, my meeting with Ginevra ran a bit over, please, come in.” _

_ Ginny glances curiously at Harry, wondering why he was here to meet with Dumbledore; surely he wasn’t learning about the fundamentals of magic?  _

_ She hasn’t spent much time with the boy other than the fact he is always hanging out with Ron. He spends a lot of time at the Burrow for holidays and is always sitting at the same seats in the common room with Ron and Hermione, but Ginny doesn’t hang out with them. Her and Ron drifted apart as soon as he had started at Hogwarts; he gets so wrapped up in Harry and Hermione he doesn’t have time for her anymore. _

_ Harry steps into the room somewhat tentatively, glancing often at Ginny, as if he was worried about being near her. She scoffs silently, he always was timid around her, ever since he first came to the Burrow after his first year. She doesn’t know why.  _

_ Dumbledore turns to her, “Well, our discussion will have to pick up on Friday Ginevra. I’m afraid we ran over. We will get more into working with natural energy and our way of accessing it. If you’d like to read up on the subject, there is a book in the library, the restricted section I believe, called  _ Natural Magic and Ley Lines _. I’ll send a note along to Madam Pince to have it ready for you to pick. I believe you will find it most delightful, if a bit dense.” _

_ Ginny stands up, “Thank you professor, goodnight.” She nods at Harry on her way out the door.  _

_ He nervously nods back, his hands clenched in front of him. _

“III”

**February** **15, 2008**

She sighs; knowing the confrontation is inevitable, she brings down her illusionary wall, keeping her hands raised and in sight.

“Hello Professor, hello Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the first we've seen of Harry since the prologue.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the way the story is going, as always reviews make me happy! And I love hearing from you guys.
> 
> Next chapter will be posted on Thursday.
> 
> Thank you for the reviews!! They keep me going!


	9. It Began With The Dwarfs

####  **Chapter 8**  
**It Began With The Dwarfs**

“I”

_I don’t understand what his deal is. He’s always so broody. Like what does he have to brood about._ Not _that I even care._

“III”

**February** **15, 2008**

The cavern is filled with the stark brilliance of spell-light. The jagged edges of the walls are thrown into contrasting relief, sharp shadows scraping over the surface like deep river weeds. A pile of rubble stands in the middle of the floor, reaching a peak at the gaping mouth of the yawning hole in one wall. 

Across from the hole stands a woman, her back against the rough wall, a circle on the ground around her void of any of the strewn stone. She stands tall and straight, but if one were to look close enough, they would sense her uncertainty. For it is there — rupturing beneath her proud exterior. 

Atop the pile of blasted rocks, stands two men. One old, one young. One with white hair, one with black. They stand deep among a long silence. Their faces are cast in long shadows and their silhouettes outlined in silver. The spell-light turns their black clocks to grey and hides their features in shadow.

Ginny clears her throat.

“So… come here often?” she tries. 

They ignore her abysmal attempt at levity.

“Ginevra— Ginny Weasley? Is that you?” comes the question from the old man, in a gravelly gruff tone.

She sighs. 

“Yes, sir, it’s me.”

“You’re— you’re supposed to be dead.”

“III”

**July 7, 2001**

The stream burbles and bubbles as it moves slowly through the forest. It flows past mossy logs and worn stones with no comprehension for that which it passes. It moves without sense or reason, it moves only with purpose. These are the thoughts that occupy Ginny as she stands ankle deep in the cold water.

The water calms her, pulling tension out of her. 

She sighs. 

She’s been back in England for only a day and already she is feeling quite tired. 

She’s never felt like she fits in with her family. Not that she doesn’t get along with them — she even shares a lot of similar interests with them — but it’s never been about their interests; she has always felt separate, different.

It started when she came back from her first year at Hogwarts. She had been carrying around Tom’s diary for almost a full year:

“I”

_It’s pretty strange to be writing in the diary and not hear back from Tom now. I had gotten so used to him writing back. But dad always did say “Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain.” So it’s definitely a good thing he’s gone now._

_And anyways, Tom was a whiny boy, gosh he says he was 16 but he acted like a child! Mum always says I’m precocious and I guess that comes with a certain maturity, but I’m still 5 years younger than he was. Yeesh. He was like a petulant child. I guess if any sense of Tom was left in the diary, he’d be getting pretty mad right now at my words._

_But I can tell he’s not. The diary feels empty now, lighter in a way. Who knows what that means._

_It’s nice to be back home now, I missed the Burrow and my room and the pond. And of course my parents! I missed them frightfully. And Ron and the twins are much friendlier to me again now that they don’t have all their friends distracting them. Ron has been a bit mopey though without Harry and Hermione near, you’d think they died the way he’s been acting._

_But the twins actually asked me to help them prank him! I definitely missed this. And I think it will help get Ron out of his funk._

_They still won’t let me fly with them... I think mum threatened them if they allowed me to play quidditch with them. She still thinks I’m a baby! Hah. They don’t know I’ve been flying since I was 8._

_Anyways, I hear mum calling for dinner._

—

_Ugh._

_I actually felt happy to be back here. I was actually excited to be around everyone again. I’d actually convinced myself that it was going to be great, that I’d be friends with Ron and the twins again. Percy has always been stuck in his room. Who cares._

_This family makes me so angry!! I feel so angry all the time and they really bring it out._

_I feel so angry all the time. It’s like this scratch, this digging feeling under my skin. It feels like it’s pressing out from behind my eyes. Sometimes it’s so great I feel like my chest will explode._

_Cordelia and Maeve never talk to me, they don’t even try to anymore, the bints._

_I don’t like feeling so angry._

_But I can’t help it._

_My hands are shaking right now I’m so mad._

“III”

**July 11, 1992**

_A soft explosion comes from the side of the twisty-turny home, a wall on the second floor exploding outwards in a patter of wood and dust. A little red-headed girl is left standing in the hole left by the eruption, black scorch marks emanating out from her around the room. Tear marks track through the dust on her pale face._

_In the silence after the detonation, her door bangs open as her parents come running into the room. Her mother cradles her to her body, with loud, worrying noises. Her father looks her over carefully, ensuring she isn’t hurt._

_They ask what happened in quiet reassuring tones. Hands gently patting down hair in soothing gestures._

_But the girl quickly goes from pale to red-faced as she screams her confusion at them, her anger getting the better of her again. She is shaking, vibrating with her rage. The air in the room hums and crackles._

_There are faces in the bedroom doorway_ — _boys faces_ — _looking in, called to the commotion. As the air spits and sparks with a fuzzy energy, the faces withdraw, scared and startled._

_The father mutters a quick spell and the little girl falls asleep, mid scream, collapsing in her mothers arms._

_She looks up at her husband, inquiring desperately for what to do, for any sense behind what is happening to her little girl._

“III”

**July 7, 2001**

She sits on the side of the stream, dragging her feet through the water, her mind drifting to the past as the water drifts by her. 

_Hello Ginny, it’s been a while, hasn’t it._

She jumps clear out of her skin, leaping to her feet in a great splash.

“Who said that!?” she near shouts, whirling around in a spray of water, wand out and ready. 

But she’s alone in the stream, alone in the glade. Completely alone. 

The wind rustles through the green leaves, stirring the dappled shadows that cover the forest floor. The sunlight is golden — rays alighting upon the curved ferns that cover the stream bank. Birds chirp faintly, their melodies like a distant choir. 

And the stream burbles and bubbles as it moves slowly through the forest.

_Did you really think I’d gone, Ginny?_

_No, no, no! This cannot be happening._

_Did you really think you’d be free of me?_ he scolds. 

_No! You’re gone. I DESTROYED YOU!_ Ginny screams in her mind. 

_You can’t destroy me,_ his voice sounds smug, at the edge of laughing, even inside her own head, _even the dwarfs weren’t able to help you. I am eternal, I am forever, I am_ —

Whatever else he was going to say was cut off abruptly, as, with a harsh scream, she sinks her power into a new bind rune. It sets with nothing but her intent. 

She presses her wand against her thigh, “ _Fulcio._ ” 

And with that spell, she pours her strength into the four-way bind rune, pouring her power into it until it burns within her skin like frozen lightning — until she’s left panting. 

She is on her knees in the stream, not even knowing when she fell there, no longer noticing the iciness of the water. The back of her throat hurts. There’s a pounding in her head. 

And her mind is stuttering — memories fluttering across her consciousness. She has no sense of place or purpose. Only a girl with a shattered mind swimming in a universe of thought and emotion.

_A twisted four poster bed, bent like a demented creature, stands in a stone room as three young girls look at it horror._

_An incredible pounding noise shakes the flames of candles within a dark severe cavern bathed in orange._

_A field of twilight strewn stars in a bed of violet spins too fast overtop a black sea._

_A boy looking at a girl in a crowded mess hall._

_The dark lines of words covering thick pages of a diary._

_A girl, alone among her peers._

_A piece of thread, red, thin, and taut, stretched across a cavern._

With a lurch, Ginny’s mind rights itself, falling together with the click of a locking door; her sense of self returns — the keystone for her mind.

Her breaths come in huge shuddering gasps. She collapses in the stream, lying on her back, eyes squeezed shut against the sun. 

The flowing water anchors her, its iciness cooling down her feverish skin. 

She can feel the cage she built in her mind; she can feel it — alien and cold. 

She sits up — pushing herself to her feet, her wet shirt clinging to her, her head aching — and examines her new tattoo. Her pant leg is burned away where she set it into her thigh, leaving a scorched ring in the black cotton. 

_Uruz, algiz, isaz,_ and _ehwaz_. 

She had set it with pure intent, creating the four-way bind rune on instinct alone. It will work, for now. She is an Ancient Runes master after all. 

She has to get out of here. She has to fix this.

With a quick healing spell she fixes the burnt skin around the tattoo. Setting a tattoo isn’t usually such a brutal process, but she severely over powered the rune in an effort to lock him away. 

No one can know she’s still alive, she’s a danger to everyone around her. She has to fix this.

She summons a squirrel to her, it squeaks and twists in her hands, trying to escape.

“Thank you for your life,” she says with truth, before casting a joyless _Avada Kedavra._ The spell leaves traces, and she needs no one to question the fact that she is dead. 

She pulls off the bronze coin hanging around her neck and with a quick spell embeds it into the squirrel’s body, hiding it within the poor creature. Wizards don’t perform the same sort of autopsies that muggles do, and once they detect the killing curse, they won’t have any reason to look into her death any deeper.

With quiet efficiency, she grabs a stone from the bottom of the stream and etches three runes into it. Closing her eyes to concentrate, she breaks the powering links between the coin to her tattoos and links them all to her own magic instead. Then, she links the rune stone to the coin and sends it inside of the squirrel as well. 

As soon as she does, the little body of the squirrel shimmers and shakes until a perfect copy of herself is lying dead in the stream. The coin will keep the rune stone powered long after the body gets examined and buried.

She stares down at it. She stares down at the facsimile of her body lying half in and out of the stream, the current pulling its hair like a flag fluttering in the breeze. The copy's face is blank, its eyes lifeless and empty. 

Should she feel perturbed? Depressed? Remorse? She doesn’t know. All she feels is anger, stirring like a foaming pit in her chest.

She turns away, ready to leave, to get as far away from here as she can. But she stops after only a step beyond the stream. She pulls her wand out and with a small hesitation, snaps it in two.

A wand in pieces cannot have _Priori Incantato_ cast. And no one will be looking for a broken wand either.

And with that, she strides away; placing her hand against her chest as she does, muttering, “ _fulcio._ ”

And with that, a much shorter, brown-haired green-eyed girl walks away into the forest, disappearing in the shifting shadows of the leaves. 

“III”

**February** **15, 2008**

“You died. I saw your body! I— we buried you!” The young man is almost shouting at the end. He seems inordinately angry. 

_Why is he so upset?_

“I know, Harry, I know,” Ginny sighs, “Look, let me explain myself, alright?”

Harry huffs, crossing his arms. The old man looks gruff and stern, exactly as he has always looked. 

Ginny sighs again. _I guess this is happening_.

She steps away from the wall, waving her wand at the spell-light. It splits into three and grows to a much warmer, softer hue, filling the space with a comforting glow instead of the harsh brilliance it was before.

They gape at her a bit. She shrugs.

“Come down from there, alright? And we can have a conversation,” she states, gesturing at them.

They both grumble a bit, but they climb down with ease. 

“What are you both even doing here?” she demands, “what are you here for?”

The professor looks at her a bit strangely, “You first girlie, then we’ll go.”

Harry waves his wand at two boulders, dragging them over for him and the professor to use as chairs. They sit and turn to look at her, both scowling. 

She sighs yet again, organizing her mind.

And then begins her story.

She tells about the squirrel and charming it to replace her body, and then leaving the country for a couple of years. She tells them about coming back to england and how she found a job working among muggles. She tells them about coming here to follow a lead, and how she was just about to give up when they burst in. 

She is careful with her story, giving enough for them to feel as if their questions are answered, but withholding her reasonings. 

She stops talking. And the cavern echoes a bit with the hollowness of her words.

“Well,” grunts the professor, “what a load of crock.”

“Moody,” Harry mutters, admonishing him.

“Hmph. You know it is, boy. If you don’t want to tell us your business you don’t have to girlie. But then we aren’t sharing either.”

She glares at him. She knows what her glare can do. She’s used to men — soldiers even — jumping to when she glares at them like that. But Moody just sits there, arms folded obstinately across his chest, returning her glare with ease. 

“Fine!” she growls, throwing her hands in the air, “fine.”

She rubs a hand over her face. 

“Well, it really starts with the dwarfs…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A whole heck of a lot of jumping around this chapter, a flashback within a flashback! 
> 
> I love everyone of the reviews I get, I love hearing people's theories and thoughts. A lot of story lines open here, a lot of unanswered questions, let me know you thoughts!
> 
> Cheers!  
> Upstater


	10. Author's Note

_ AN: I know the last chapter was pretty jumpy in terms of dates, so I wanted to clarify a few of the dates and timelines that we have going.  _

**_Dates:_ **

**_Aug 11, 1981_ ** _ : Ginny Weasley is born _

_ At some point right before her first year at Hogwarts, she begins writing to Tom. _

**_Sept 1, 1992 - July 1, 1993_ ** _ : 1st year at Hogwarts _

**_Oct 31, 1992_ ** _ : She first asks Professor Babbling about  _ Ancient Runes

_ At some point during her first year she begins to ‘drain’ the diary _

**_July 11, 1993_ ** _ : She accidentally causes an explosion in her room at The Burrow, Molly and Arthur don’t know what to do. (I made a mistake with this date in the last chapter, it says jul 11 1992, it is supposed to be 1993, the summer after her first year.) _

**_Sept 1, 1993 - July 1, 1994_ ** _ : 2nd year at Hogwarts _

_ At some point during her second year she learns how to create the  _ Fidelis.

_ At some point in her second year, Dumbledore approaches her about using his library to learn more about Runes, instead of breaking into the restricted section. _

**_Sept 1, 1994 - July 1, 1995:_ ** _ 3rd year at Hogwarts _

**_Sept 1, 1995 - July 1, 1996_ ** _ : 4th year at Hogwarts _

_ At some point during her fourth year, Dumbledore begins private lessons with her. He teaches her about Rune Stones and she invents her spell-storing ring. _

_ At some point during her fourth year, she learns about the hidden library while reading  _ Saxon Traditions Influenced By The Greek Diaspora.

**_Sept 1, 1996 - July 1, 1997_ ** _ : 5th year at Hogwarts _

_ At some point during her fifth year she gives herself her first tattoo: Zel, an array to protect her mind. _

**_May 9, 1997_ ** _ : She begins learning about the fundamentals of magic from Dumbledore and runs into Harry coming in for one of his lessons. _

**_Aug 28, 1997_ ** _ : She leaves Hogwarts (I made a mistake in  _ The Pub _ , and said she left immediately _ after _ her 6th year, it was supposed to be immediately  _ before _ her 6th year) _

**_March 16, 1998_ ** _ : She finds the library and learns about the Pleiades and her ascension _

**_June 20, 2001_ ** _ : She hikes the mountain in Norway and accesses the Void. (this chapter will cover what happens in the void, hopefully you’ve been picking up on some of the hints so far!)  _

**_June 30, 2001_ ** _ : She takes a pit stop in the pub contemplating her move back to England _

**_July 7, 2001_ ** _ : She has been back in England for a day. Hears Tom’s voice, freaks out, fakes her death and leaves England for a few years. _

**_Feb 8, 2008_ ** _ : She attends a muggle military base to install wards. We learn about her tattoos. _

**_Feb 15, 2008_ ** _ : Present day as of this chapter. She is in the pit with Moody and Harry. Why? We do not yet know. _

_ Okay, so those are all the dates we’ve touched on so far. If it feels overwhelming or confusing, just pay attention to the year. The day and month doesn’t matter too much.  _

_ The timelines that we’ll be continuing with still are  _ **_Present day (2008)_ ** _ , the next chapter will cover  _ **_the void and should wrap up 2001_ ** _. There will be one more timeline at some point that takes place between 2001 and 2008 to cover her mysterious ascension. Moving forward, I will try to only jump back to an older date (most likely only diary or Hogwarts flashbacks) once per chapter. _

_ We will continue to have diary flashbacks and Hogwarts flashbacks, but those will always be in italics, and just to flesh out bits of her past. The dates don’t matter too much with the flashbacks, just know they all happened at Hogwarts.  _

_ I know this is a lot of info, but I’m sure it can get confusing especially if you read it as it gets updated and not all at once. I hope this helps! And I’m going to do my best moving forward to not jump around so much. _

_ I will also keep the date list updated on my tumblr: upstaterstories under “Dates” in the menu.  _


	11. Svartalfheim

####  **Chapter 9** **  
** **Svartalfheim**

“III”

**June 21, 2001**

The void shudders as it pulls her in, her mind whirling as she tumbles through space. The void is as hot as the sun, as cold as the dark side of the moon. Her body shakes and her thoughts seem to split in two — the void is trying to take something from her. The void wants a part of her.  _ Needs _ a part of her. It is shaking her apart at the seams and Ginny starts to fade, only leaving the girl-in-the-void behind. Drifting… drifting… Endlessly drifting is a girl who came from somewhere, but has nowhere to go...

_ No! _ She thinks fiercely,  _ No! I AM ME. I AM ME. I AM MINE. _

Her mind recoils with a sharp  _ SNAP _ as the void releases her.

She gasps, deep quivering breaths, her lungs filling with acrid air. A loud pounding noise is shaking the space around her. A steady slamming that does nothing to help her mind resolve itself. Great splotches of red and orange float across her vision in a hazy blur, dark shapes moving in time with the reverberations. She shakes her head slightly, trying to bring her vision back to center.

Her palms burn; they smart with the sting of rough rock against skin. She’s on her hands and knees — she can feel the ache setting into her knees as well. She shakes her head again, the splotches of color lose themselves into the shapes of an orange and red rock cavern. She rests her forehead against the cool stone, letting it calm her. She knows she should be checking her surroundings, making sure her protective spells are in place, but her mind is too ajumble.

The great pounding reverberations stop suddenly, her ears ring in the sudden silence.

_ You’re being watched. _

With a shout, she rolls herself into a standing position, wand in hand, crouching slightly. 

But no one is there. 

She releases  _ Mortalis Revelio  _ and  _ Malum Revelio _ in quick succession, the light blue waves of the spells disappearing into the far reaches of the cavern, returning no sign of anyone or anything.

She ignores the spinning in her head and takes stock of her surroundings. She's standing in the middle of a cavern carved from red and orange stone. There are dark branches of tunnels heading off in three different directions spread out equally around the cavern. The space is lit by a huge iron chandelier ringed with golden candles. There is no wind in the cavern, no breeze, no gust, no puff of air. 

The candles are stock-still, their flames pointing straight to the ceiling. It’s quite unnerving, watching those flames without movement, and for a moment she’s entranced, her eyes pulled inexorably to those motionless flames.

Then the pounding begins again. And the flames move as the air reverberates with great waves of sound. 

Ginny pulls her eyes away from the candles. 

“III”

Each tunnel is a perfect polished arch. Torch brackets are spaced evenly down the length of every hall, the flickering light making the red rock glow. The tunnels twist and turn, branch and deadend. 

Ginny wanders the quiet long halls until time has no meaning anymore. Time passes, and passes more. The silence is a constant companion, heavy and dead alongside her, pressing on her shoulders, weighing her down. 

It is with a weary tread that she comes upon the great cavern. The smooth walls of the tunnel cut away in a sudden shearing that leaves her breathless of the expanse of it all. The ceiling of the chamber extends so far up it loses itself among the darkness. Enormous carved columns ring around the chamber, bigger around than her entire dormitory at Hogwarts. They too disappear in the towering midnight depths of the ceiling. 

Huge braziers positioned at the bottom of each column spill light around the massive chamber. The flames cast the carvings on the columns into sharp relief, and with a start, Ginny realizes they are covered in etched runes. She steps hesitantly into the room, moving over to the first column. She runs her hand along the runes, each one as long as her arm, carved deep into the stone in perfectly straight tidy lines. 

It’s a story, she realizes, reading it over, _ written in Elder Furþoc. ‘...sent the youth, who is called Skirner, and is Frey's messenger, to some dwarfs in Svartalfheim, and had them make the fetter which—’ _ she cuts off reading as the loud thundering pounding begins again, reverberating through the chamber. 

It’s louder here than it was where she fell from the void. It pushes against her like a physical being; it sets her teeth on edge. She can feel the noise vibrating in her bones. She clenches her hands to the side of her head, trying to block out some of the noise, but it is all invading. A resounding presence she cannot escape from.

And it stops as quickly as it began. 

She realizes she was screaming. She wonders when she began.

Her hands are shaking as she stands up. 

Appearing like frost on a summer day, a circle of seven tall dwarfs stand around her — encroaching, menacing. They stand silently, but their presence feels relentless — they seem to exist more vividly than she does, they’re more solid, greater, alien. 

Her mind is blank but the thought,  _ I’ve found them.  _

“Ær du  þú? Þú'st útan.”

“I — I don’t know what you’re saying,” she stumbles over her words. She curses herself silently. This isn't who she is. She’s not a frightened girl. She doesn’t shake. She  _ doesn’t _ stumble.

With determination burning in her stomach, she pulls out her wand to cast a translation spell. In an invisibly quick movement there are blades pressed against her throat, shoving her up against the pillars, the hard stone cold through her clothes; her wand plucked from her hand effortlessly.

Ginny raises her hands in a quick and — she hopes — non-threatening gesture.

“I just wanted to cast a translation spell,” she says slowly, carefully, looking at her wand hanging futilely in the hands of one of the towering  Svartálfar. 

“I have a charm stone I can use if that’s more acceptable,” she questions, looking at the two imposing dwarfs holding her against the column at sword point. She gets no response. She looks past, to the other four dwarfs. Their faces are impassive, blank; their white eyes convey no emotion. 

She gestures, gently, slowly, towards the pouch hanging across her chest. She doesn’t know if they understand her words, or gestures, but the press of the blades lightens at her neck and her hands are released. 

Cautiously she reaches into her pack and pulls out a small runestone. And with a quick furtive glance at the surrounding dwarfs, she closes her eyes and — with almost an unconscious movement — she connects it to her own magic, what in the absence of her wand. 

“Can you understand me?” she asks, tentatively. A flicker of surprise ghosts across the face of the  Svartálfar immediately to her left, before the impassiveness returns. 

“Erilaz,” one of them says in a dark guttural tone void of displayed emotion. 

Is the runestone not working? 

She asks again, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand, can you understand me?”

“Aye, Erilaz, we can,” mutters the Svartálfar standing the furthest back. His white hair is pulled back in an elaborate braid, his dark clothing wrapped loosely around him. He stands at 8 feet or so  — long swords strapped to his back, shorter blades at his waist  — looking down at her over a long hooked nose. 

“No man has visited our halls in an age. You are here for what?” His voice is gravelly and deep, grating like rocks against one another. 

She doesn’t know where to begin. 


	12. Læsanir

####  **Læsanir**

“III”

**June 21, 2001**

She feels like a ghost in this world. Her body seems ephemeral. Her mind seems but a wraith. But the Svartálfar — their presence is heady. Their skin is midnight dark, their eyes are white without even any irises, their hair is colorless — as white as their eyes. 

Her translation stone allows her to communicate with them, but there is a distinct discontinuity between their words. She’s never felt quite so insignificant. 

Among her classmates she was separate — better, smarter, quicker, more powerful. Among the muggles she was a  _ witch  _ — she knew things they couldn’t dream of. But among these dwarfs, deep in their foreign, remote world, she is inferior. It isn’t so much that they are more powerful magically, they’re just… more. 

She sits against the wall, resting her head against the stone. Her eyes are half closed, combating the spinning still in her head, as well as a supreme sense of being overwhelmed. 

She is now in a different massive chamber adjacent to the first large one she had stumbled into. She had explained to the dwarfs why she had come, in brief, after their questioning. They had then marched her into the new hall they were now in, and sat her down on the floor like a petulant child and told her to wait. 

She’s a bit relieved at the opportunity to rest though; she has no idea how long she’d been wandering around the maze of tunnels leading to the carved hall. And the Svartálfar’s presence is very disconcerting, and she has this spinning in her head that is refusing to go away…

Her eyes drift closed of their own accord. 

“Erilaz.”

The voice comes again, “Erilaz,” along with a little shake. 

She starts awake, jumping to her feet in a small bit of panic, glancing around wildly. Instinctively she reaches for her wand only to find it missing. 

The dwarf crouched in front of her looks startled at her sudden movement — well, as startled as they can, with their emotionless features — his eyebrows raising slightly. 

“Sorry,” she mutters, “sorry.” 

He stands and gestures for her to follow him.

He brings her to a much smaller chamber. This one is lit with a large iron chandelier like the one at the void entrance. The walls are carved and painted with many runes. She glances around in interest, trying to read them, and she notices that she recognizes a few common arrays — one for blocking evesdroppers, another for keeping anyone from lying. 

In the center of the room is a massive stone table. It stands almost five feet off of the ground and is made of mirror polished black stone. It reflects the candle light off in strange patterns, the light seeming to sink into the stone. 

Six dwarfs stand around it, all looking at her as she comes into the room, their faces impassive as always. 

The one who seems to be the leader begins to talk, “Your story has been discussed and an agreement met.” 

He nods to her. She nods back nervously, hoping the agreement was something that didn’t involve disposing of her remains.

“It has been beyond a thousand of your years since man has come here, even more since an Erilaz has made its way among us. We would like to welcome you.” His voice rumbles like fallen stone, like the tumble of a waterfall. 

“We,” he begins, gesturing around at the six dwarfs beside him, “have decided to provide what you have requested, in exchange for your help.” 

She swallows nervously, “of course, I wouldn’t presume to ask for your help without something to exchange. Do you have something in mind? I’m not sure what I can do for you that is great enough in return for what I am asking but I assure you I will do the best of my—”

He cuts off her nervous babbling with a sharp wave of his hand.

_ Get a GRIP Ginny, _ she thinks to herself fiercely,  _ get a fucking grip. _

“We request,” he grates, “your magic.”

“III”

**February** **15, 2008**

Harry gasps, “they— they wanted to take your magic from you!? Di—did they?” he stutters incredulously. 

Ginny shoots him a look, it was the first that either of them had said anything during her tale. They had both let out grunts of surprise when she recounted finding the void and meeting the dwarfs for the first time, but had let her continue her story uninterrupted. 

“No, Potter, they didn’t want to take my magic. I’ve obviously still got it, you just saw me cast magic…” she scoffs. 

“Oh, right,” he mumbles, glancing at Moody sideways, looking chagrined. Moody rolls his good eye. 

“But,” she concedes, “I was a bit worried about that at first myself. I asked them that, of course, a bit shrilly, I might add. I don’t think I was making a great first impression upon them…”

“III”

**June 21, 2001**

“You want my magic!?” she squawks, a bit shrilly. 

“Peace, manling, peace. The magic of the  Svartálfar lies in the deep recesses of our world. It lies in our ability to build great things. But it lacks the intricacies of man. We would request some of those,” he points to the pouch around her chest where she had tucked the translation stone.

Understanding washes over her in great waves of relief. 

“My runestones? I can make you some, as many as you’d like. But, forgive me if I am overstepping, can’t you create your own?” she gestures around at the carved walls, “our myths say you’re the source of all runes, can you not use them?” she questions.

A rumble of disapproval moves around the circle of dwarfs.

“We cannot infuse our writing with magic in the ways of an Erilaz, there are no Erilaz dwarfs, only man may have that title.” 

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know this word, Erilaz?”

“It means a rune master. A magician. One like you who can infuse magic into their runes.”

“III”

“What range do you need?” she inquires. She’s standing with two dwarfs at the polished black table, sketching out her plans for their request on some spare parchment she had in her pouch. 

“Our land is four  _ tonneland _ , two and a half  _ landmiil _ til you approach our border from here.”

_ Merlin, tonneland!? Landmiil?? They really haven’t had any contact with man for centuries. Alright four tonneland, is approximately thirty-two… round up to thirty-three square miles. Two and a half landmiil, is what… times seven, seventeen… and a half miles. _

_ Damn alright, 33 square miles, lets round up to 35, each stone can cover 5 square miles, that’s _ —

“I’ll need seven stones, in granite or quartz, about this large around,” she says, looping her arms in a circle, about two feet across. She didn’t want to have to do any more mental conversions.  _ Merlin. Tonneland. They probably still use forearms for measurements.  _

Since the Svartálfar don’t have their own magic, they won’t be able to power the small rune stones she’s going to be leaving with them. So she is creating anchor stones to draw magic from their world into the small runestones. Svartalfheim doesn’t have any inherent ley lines, she’s learned. She’s going to have to connect the anchor stones to the sea of power that exists under their rocky world. When she focuses, she can sense it, shifting like a restless sea, deep below her feet. It grounds her and eases the spinning in her head.

They bring her the quartz next. Huge hulking mounds of jagged pink quartz. She gapes at the size of the boulders.

“An  _ aln _ across would have been fine,” she says, taken back by the quartz boulders: they stand taller than her five foot ten inches, and she doubts she could reach all the way around them.

“Will these not do, Erilaz,” one of the dwarfs asks. Does he sound worried? She cannot tell. 

“No, no these are great!” she reassures, “they will more than do. They’re perfect.”

They lead her all over their realm, placing the quartz at the center of every five mile square. At each stop, she sets a band of brass into the stone. The bands are carved with complex powering arrays to provide the link between the anchor stones and the sea of magic drifting deep beneath the surface of this world. 

It takes three days, by her reckoning, for them to place every stone and power them up. She hasn’t gotten hungry, or thirsty yet. She hasn’t seen any farm or source of water. Just endless carved caverns; all polished stone and covered in runes. 

Another four days pass in a blur of stilted conversations and napping. They pass with her just sitting by waiting, trying to engage the four dwarfs who keep her company in reluctant conversation. 

And they sit. And wait.

Oínn, the Svaltálfar who Ginny had picked out as their leader, arrives on the fourth day with his two guards. He carries something diaphanous in his arms.

She stands quickly, breaking off from her half-hearted attempts at conversation with the stoic dwarfs besides her. 

“Erilaz,” Oínn acknowledges her with a nod, draping the gossamer fabric across the stone table. 

It’s not fabric, she realizes as she draws closer, but fine thread spooled around and around in layer upon layer. 

“You will need one more thing, before it is complete.”

She pauses, her hand halfway out to touching it, glancing up at his studiously blank expression. She supposes her question is clear on her face, because he continues on at her glance.

“I know your myths may be a bit vague in the construction of such a thing, it is that way on purpose. We would not let man know of our secrets. You would need know of such things, Erilaz, if you may complete your task.” He sounds grave, his gravelly tone slower and deeper than before.

“We left the tale of Gleipnir’s construction with man in the ridiculous, made of six said impossible things: T he sound of a cat's footfall, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, the breath of a fish, the spittle of a bird. We will not impart the truth of construction to you either, Erilaz, not from disrespect, or dissatisfaction with the gifts you have provided us. We need think of our own preservation.”

She quickly nods her understanding, not trusting herself to speak.

He continues, “To complete construction of the binding, you will need the gift from  _ Gofn _ . This will lead your quarry to it’s doom. I would not know it’s location, we have not had word from man for a millennia until your arrival. You will need to search for it yourself.”

“This,” he grates, “is Læsanir,” pointing to the spools of thread.

She takes the delicate thread in her hands, a bit apprehensively. It’s so light, it feels like she’s holding air, it feels like it’s floating in her hands. It spools across the tabletop in a silken pile, red and vibrant in the candlelight. 

It feels like liberation. 

The feeling coils tight and hot in her stomach. Her skin thrums with the thrill of possibility.


End file.
